


What The Fuck Else

by DeadShips



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Canon Typical Violence (mentioned), Depression, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Week 2020, Light Angst, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Talia is a good parent, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22770319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadShips/pseuds/DeadShips
Summary: To be entirely fair to them, he never told them that he decided that he needed to change. That he needed to stop watching the world down from where he was clipped to a cement brick below the surface, that it was well beyond time to start following the bubbles and swim towards the light, it’s time to breathe...What the fuck else could he possibly do when his heart ached so horribly in his chest..________________Jason comes to terms with his biggest struggle.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Duke Thomas & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 9
Kudos: 198





	What The Fuck Else

**Author's Note:**

> Submission for JTW-Day 1: Time Travel|Family
> 
> Following the prompt of family.
> 
> Friendly reminder that Jason isn't always the most reliable narrators. 
> 
> Let me know if the tags are lacking.

Jason has come a long way in his journey to recovery, not just from his revival, but from being such a hostile kid. As a matter of fact he was sure that if he approached his younger self now, told him of the path that he was taking, he’d laugh right in his face. _Maybe even slug him_. Hell, he could go back to the beginning of the year and he’d be calling his future self a _pussy_. A part of him would have to agree, because even now he couldn’t believe the steps that he was taking – not even his family would understand – they weren’t so much at liberty to know. There was a difference between acknowledging that there was a really fucking big problem and actually getting off of his ass and _doing something about it_. Much less let the whole fucking clan in on what him for his recent ‘Personality Replacement Thearpy’ (the little hell spawn’s words).

To be entirely fair to them, he never told them that he decided that he needed to change. That he needed to stop watching the world down from where he was clipped to a cement brick below the surface, that it was well beyond time to start following the bubbles and swim towards the light, it’s time to breathe. Jason made that discovery himself when he’d seen that same bitter resentment that he’s carried in his chest since his very first breath in the form of hungry kids trying to rob him as Red Hood. It didn’t matter that he was a very much feared ex-criminal and assassin, that he was the dark outlier of the bats that wouldn’t flinch on taking a life or using just a little more brute force – the twin holsters strapped to his thighs were all but nonexistent to these starved children. It’s not like he didn’t fucking know what was going on in these streets. Jason knew better than they could possibly imagine. It didn’t matter how many new centers erect up from nothing, how many new programs and initiatives, how many small fortunes spent (especially by WE itself), these streets were just as nasty as they were corrupt since he’d been scrimping for change. Back when a nickel was the difference between going hungry or sleeping (more importantly hoping to sleep) with a warm belly. Jason knew that desperation just as well as he could navigate northeast Gotham.

So what the fuck else was he going to do other than to hand over half of the cash that he had, and use the rest to buy them a meal right that second? What the fuck else could he possibly do when his heart ached so horribly in his chest when they’d all but scarfed down their portions, keeping one arm up to guard off any attempt of thievery of their meal, knowing that this was likely the first warm and decent meal they’ve had in days – fuck, that even with the money he’d handed over that still didn’t mean they would get to eat. Hoped to god that they would be able to spend it on what they needed. Hoped it wouldn’t be shaken from their pockets by equally desperate muggers (there had to be some irony in there to hope that your muggers weren’t mugged). Mostly, he just hoped it wasn’t going to be passed off to a parent, guardian, whoever held superiority over them for another fix. Hated how much he _understood_ the mistrust in their eyes when he offered to walk them back home, or how one asked what they’d have to do for protection.

That – oh god – that implication that he’d even be interested in _taking advantage_ of the boy, a little spitfire with shaggy blonde hair and eyes so green they could make an al Ghul jealous, and even worse – that this boy knew what he had to offer.. Jason just about threw up in his helmet. After very firmly and calmly (couldn’t stress how calm) expressing that they didn’t owe him shit did they let up some. It wasn’t until he promised them on his grave that he knew fucking Batman, called him even that proved his sincerity. The fact that he had to have the bat physically present with him to calm their nerves made him just as sick. _Because what on earth did that say about him?_ It was a selfish thing to think, he knew (because he lived with that paranoia every fucking day of his life), and yet he let it tear him whole. He’d been cleaning up his act for years now, not so much as taking a life for the past six months. He patrolled the heart of his old streets with a sworn vengeance. There had to be some sort of retribution for that. How many times did he go out of his way to not only protect these streets from the scum that walked them, but from the Bat himself?

And Jason was still as much a threat to them as any other bloke.

The rest of that night was a blur. Any other time he would remember each different house. He would be able to keep tabs on them all, expand his proverbial wings over them. Instead his body moved as if on autopilot. This too he was familiar with. To close himself off from the world that it was completely muted, to go through with the motions with so much apatheia that bled steadily throughout his veins it was almost like he were dead.

_“You did the right thing Jason.”_ The low rumble of a voice that held so much familiarity and yet was so foreign dragged him out of the murk. They weren’t even in the narrows any longer, let alone the city. Jason had not only strapped himself into Bruce’s vehicle; he removed his helm and gloves, gotten himself back out of the car and in front of the computer before he came to. Bruce was touching him and he didn’t notice the heavy weight of the hand until that second.

_“Can I stay here tonight?”_ The words were out and into the open before anyone could grasp the depths of five simple words could bring. But once they were out there, they hung over them in a tension so thick that Jason almost felt like he was suffocating. Sans cowl or not, Bruce was as intimidating as ever standing there frozen in time, holding Jason’s lifeline in those big, strong hands. For a cave he could practically feel the skin melt right off of his bone with the intensity of that gaze. He wasn’t Jason Todd, son returned from dead. He wasn’t the snarky Boy Wonder. He wasn’t the perilous and stoic Red Hood. He wasn’t the lethal weapon the League mold him into. He was that same terrified boy with a tire iron in one hand and a hub cap in the other. That same starving and desperate street rat willing to do _anything_ for his next meal, praying to god that the figure swallowed by the shadows wouldn’t be the thing to take finally snatch his last breath.

Jason was twenty-three now, a man, and he was just as terrified at the prospect of rejection from this building of a man as he was a scrawny kid.

In a moment of clarity where human empathy and compassion prevailed grudges and hurt so deep it was an endless abyss, Jason found himself in those arms. Found that awful, retched sound stabbing away at his ears was coming from his throat. That the world shaking around him was his body thrown into trembles down to the marrow. That wet and stuffy place he shoved his face into was the making of a dignified cape. Jason allowed himself the moment, soothing over the broken boy of so many years ago to the tattered and cracked man that he was today.

Begrudgingly, with as much venom as he could muster, Jason would admit that even now the safest place in his mind was right here in these arms.

Jason gave himself this moment of shattering because come morning, his demons were no further away.

So yeah, Jason had a problem, and like any bat he sought out diligently it’s solution.

At first it was little things. A minute longer to contemplate than to react on impulse. Not giving that one devastating blow, knowing it would make him feel no better if he did. Changing his diet, cooking at home more often(in which forcing him to go to the store) instead of protein bars and high calorie supplements. Made a firm rule about going no more than seventy-two hours without sleep, even if it was only a power nap to refresh him. Every day just doing a little more, a little better. This new system worked for Jason. Who would have known taking care of your body’s needs would improve not only state of mind, but his performance in the field? Like with everything new, he was determined to see each change through until it was done so effortlessly it was instinct. That wasn’t to say Jason didn’t have bad days. The first few times he woke from a nightmare, heaving like he’d come out of a decathlon and eyes wild with tinted madness, throat screamed raw, it was discouraging to say the least. The first time that he came home with his nerves so severely frayed and his body vibrating, all it took was the sight of the gangly scar at his jugular to send him spiraling. Now that was when Jason plant his feet down; what he was doing now was merely growing roots, but roots were only so good as the rest of the plant. It was a start, a wonderful one at that, but not nearly enough.

He returned to the comfort of research, this time in the form of written word. Jason was always big on reading. Despite his Spartan way of living, he never could forgo a small collection (that at this point was so worn with stress of rereading time and time again the pages were slipping from their spine). The smell of paper, new, musky and aged alike caressing his soul the moment he stepped forth into the store. Jason frequent this place for years now, one of those places he could lose himself in peacefully. This time however would be different. Pass the rows of intricate _Poe_ , tragic _Shakespeare_ , morbid _Faulkner_ , and romantic _Haywood_ , to a place he would never dare step place in; psychology. To say he was embarrassed with the first few items he’d purchased (all titles he’d gotten online first) would be an understatement. Jason’s face was just as red as the insignia dawn at his chest. Jason all but cocooned himself in a nest of blankets, tea steaming at his right and nose buried into a book when he returned from patrol that night.

He hated them.

All of this nonsense spilled out over the pages that any fool could determine common sense. Those titles he would throw out (they didn’t so much as deserve the decency of a second hand store). Jason would rather stomach a hug from Big Bird than to let his brain rot reading that heap of crap. Back to his new routine he went, deciding that the world of psychology – self help books – _was utter trash_. His efforts wouldn’t be renewed without the help of the most unlikely of sources; Duke Thomas. Duke and he, they had a sort of respect for another that none of the other clan seemed to share; they stayed the hell out of each other’s way. Imagine his disbelief (distaste) when a gaudy yellow figure was blocking the view of his perch, asking for insight on a lead he was currently following. Now, it wasn’t something as simple as seeing Duke that drove him to his epiphany, nor the ounce of pride that he was being asked on the crime underworld (since Jason was the closest to it than the rest of them, thank you), it was the description of a perp that he was only half listening to. Four choice words to be exact.

_Known sufferer of PTSD._

Jason wasn’t so far under a rock from the world or his own emotions that he never heard of the term. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Numbers high in Vets, first responders, and victims of heinous crimes like sexual assault, trafficking, and life or death situations to name a few. It’s not that he never believed in it per se, more that he never thought it would apply to him. Never wanted it to apply to him. You label yourself with something as arduous as PTSD and you’re a nut. Everyone walks on eggshells around you or they laugh because real men can handle their shit. Still, it haunted him for endless nights. A return to the bookstore was made, armed with much better sense of direction than the first. Jason read everything he could get his hands on. Studied until his eyes couldn’t focus on the page any longer. Highlighted just as many sentences as he wrote in the margins. The books held more paper now than what they came with, practically spewing out sticky notes and page markers. The search of course didn’t end there. That was far too easy. Now he was reading essays, articles and dissertations, case files – anything he could get his hands on. Went so far as to track down one Detective Grayson to ask for his experience on the force; statistics, stories, anything, everything. _Jason was obsessed._ When the information proved _insufficient_ to his newfound hunger he became creative in the way he worded the loaded questions for Bruce and even Alfred. Not enough, not enough, not nearly enough. The more he knew, the more he wanted to know. Obsession turned _desperation_ with the starvation for knowledge.

Where else to get that, than from a truly educated source? Just about every weirdo running around Gotham seemed to have a PhD more obscure than the other. For people so intelligent they sure were stupid. One hell of a low point in his life when he’s seeking out Harley Quinn for the brain power of _Harleen Quinzel_. She only laughed in his face a little bit. Jason could handle that along with every subsequent attack that followed. Bruised physically and a fraction of his ego, he still left with a plateful of information to brood over. Hearing it from that thickly accented voice that echoed around his head for days following was enough to mortify him into a beloved pastime; avoidance.

Avoidance only lasted so long before the floodgates were overflowing and reeking absolute chaos in his life. And all it took was one quip about the edge of a scar peeking out past the hem of the bandage at the majority of his chest and torso. Tim wasn’t trying to be cruel. If he’d known the weight that the comment packed, he knew without a doubt Tim would have never uttered it. Ironic as it was, Damian may be the only one to really understand the way his chest constrict nonetheless.

_“So you really are a reanimated corpse.”_

It wasn’t even remotely nasty. There was no venom, never meant to be there in the first place. Just the words of a tired and slightly (very) nervous little brother trying to make nice in their shared space. Maybe Tim caught the effect it had with the way his eyes lit for a fraction of a second when Jason was hastily covering himself, not even waiting for the tea that was being brought down like he promised the old croon, not even getting his boots back on before he was leaving the cave like his ass was on fire. Jason must of smoked a whole damn pack that night. Routine be damned, Jason was lost and where did he go when he was lost?

To this day, it astounds him how welcome he was with the daughter of the Head of the Demon. He’s long since stopped questioning it, for the sake of saving him a migraine and the generous benefits it held. Again, he was so woefully unprepared for her coy smile, the soft glow in smoking emerald, and the near blind affirmation of help no matter the cost. Add it to his already unending debt to the al Ghul. Remarkable kindness (as completely foreign as that was to even associate with Talia) aside it was the discretion that truly kept him coming back to her perfectly manicured grasp. Jason barely said more than a few sentences and she could read him so easily that he barely had time to shoulder his pride before he was in a mint room (he was told it was supposed to be calming) with a promise whispered in his ear.

_"I’ll come back for you Habibi."_

It didn’t happen all at once. Jason sat through long bits of suffering silence. Long sessions of truths he didn’t want to hear, wasn’t ready to hear, demolishing walls that he was still trying to lay brick to as they tumbled, so much fucking trust building he could vomit. Actually, after his first few sessions he did vomit. But just as she promised, she was always just outside that door after every hour. Stripped bare and examined like a germ under a microscope. For such a fierce woman believing in fist over comfort, she never once refused his call when it became too much, stepping into the room and carding her fingers through his hair a mother to child. The only grief he was given was when he voiced that guilt of having her attention instead of Damian. She slapped him clean across the face and Jason never brought it up again.

It was more than just sessions, Jason was sent off with homework. Or so Dr. Asalaah had called it. He scoffed, because what grown ass man wrote in a journal. Dr. Asalaah countered with what grown ass man broke down a week before over the tiniest whiff of _Armani Eau De Nuit Oud_ – a favorite of Bruce. Point taken. Writing in a journal wasn’t as much of a drag as he thought. That old bastard was _right_. Writing things down, just to get them out or save for discussion later was godsent. How smug he looked when Jason pulled it out during a session was the biggest victory in the old man’s life. Like every fucking thing in his life, fate did not smile upon him. Writing, talking to Dr. Asalaah, and all the little exercises he was given _wasn’t enough_. He _still_ woke up drained most nights than not. He still dreamed of explosions, clowns, filthy streets, clawing through dirt, lecherous grins, bats, and his mother’s cold corpse. Jason _still_ felt insecurity in having his chest exposed despite his most recent assignment of wearing a scooped shirt. Jason still berate himself. _Still_ smoked whenever he needed to burn off excess stress. _Still_ lashed out at his family.

That’s how he’d found himself with a paper bag stuffed deep into his inner jacket pocket, not so much as letting him forget that he was fucked up enough to need the extra help with the way it’s contents kept rattling about with every step. This Talia would be more wary of. She expressed rather thoroughly the dangers of his new crutch and his ability to perform in the field (as well as other places, the humiliation was enough that Alfred may hang him out on the line with the laundry by the time she was done with him). They stayed buried in the back of his gun safe for longer than he cared to admit. Not so much as giving a second thought to even hint at trying it until he’d come barreling into the flat, more specifically, crawling like a fucking dog. Tears, snot, bile and god knows what else running down his face as he all but dragged his body into the bathroom, heaving the contents of his stomach until there was nothing but acid and saliva dripping from his lips. At that point he was climbing over the lip of the tub, frantically turning the knobs until he was met with an onslaught of burning ice pelting his still dressed form. Jason stayed there helplessly under the stream, allowing the image of s _haggy blonde hair_ stained red, _impossibly green eyes_ dull and void of life, externalized in pain and horror playing on slides over and over in his head. Jason stayed until his lips turned blue, hazy, exhausted, and euphoric.

Hours later when he was peeling himself out of the soaked clothing, ready to collapse onto the pathetic excuse of a bed (a mattress tucked into the corner of the room with a few blankets and a single pillow) and thoroughly rot for the next few days, getting off his fucking holsters because he’d been so careless in his devastation that he was reminded of the safe. He’d hate himself all the more if he let them sit out here, but god help him, he was so drained that simply bending over to pick them up was asking rolling a boulder up a mountain. He’d thank himself later, he told himself as he’d gone through the motions with quivering limbs, causing for the butt of his pistol to knock the bag. The sound of _rattling_ startled him out of his haze. Jason must have stood there for an hour, fear keeping him rooted in place.

In this moment Jason was fucking downing, letting the ocean swallow him whole and here was that life line again, like that night in the cave what seemed years ago now -

He followed the bubbles.

It didn’t take effect immediately (that would just be too easy) and for a moment he panicked that maybe he didn’t take it right. Maybe he was supposed to take two instead of one. Of fucking course Jason Peter Todd could fuck up something like taking a god damn tablet. Through the panic he started to feel a haze, entirely new and just as numbing. That, that was terrifying in itself. Laying in his rumpled bed, feeling meters away from himself, simultaneously like he was floating and like he was sinking into the sheets. Head so cloudy he wasn’t sure if he was breathing right. Was that – he was drooling. He’d put that together later. And as much as he wanted to care, wanted to panic more, Jason just laid there staring up at his popcorn ceiling until the rays of sun was pushing through the shitty blinds. Jason wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or to flush that bottle down the toilet. One thing he did know without a doubt in his mind, he could never tell Bruce about this. They rightfully stayed locked away in the bulky safe.

It wouldn’t be until weeks later, journal nearby to record his findings and without catastrophe that he would try again, this time with half a tablet instead of a full. It was still too far out of his element. He returned the bottle, and was given a much lower dosage. Half a tablet of the new dosage and Jason was confident that he could take the edge off without losing the ability to focus. Tested it out in the field, found his limits, and knew that when it wasn’t enough (or if he wasn’t taking the best care of himself) it made his hands shake. He still went to his sessions, much less frequently now and without the need for gentle fingers to be scraping his scalp.

Ten months from his incident in the cave and he was willing to admit he needed _a little more_ than just something to take off the edge. Because what was the fucking point of taking it as sparingly as possible when he still felt like well, a reanimated corpse walking the earth. Again, he was redirected with the second prescription from the first batch. It wouldn’t take the first day, the first week, month even. Everyone was different, so Dr. Asalaah said. The trick was to keep doing it every day. It _wasn’t_ a magical cure, it _wasn’t_ the nectar of the gods, just something that would _balance_ out the chemicals (or was it hormones? Both? He didn’t remember now). Dr. Asalaah said he would be able to breathe, get through his day a little more steadily. With everything else that he’s done, it was a lot of trial and error. They made him horrendously nauseated to the point of a quick head turn was the breaking point of keeping his lunch or seeing it again (he’d never forget Dick’s worried expression completely ruined by Damain and Duke’s roaring laughter when Tim jokingly asked if he was with child). New script. These made him feel more lethargic than before, couldn’t bring himself to give two shits about anything (including showering), to even get out of bed some days. Horrifying. Utterly horrifying when they were supposed to be doing _the exact opposite._

One last try and he was going to call it quits. Swore if this next script was as useless as the rest he was going to swear off everything else other than routine and sessions. That sly bastard told him not to worry about it. Told him to start doing things that would make him feel whole in a different way, _whatever the fuck that meant._

Passing out blankets apparently. Offering to volunteer at the soup kitchen with the rest of the Bats when it was brought up at a clan dinner. Oh yeah, that was a thing now too. Jason went to _family_ dinners. He’d even _politely_ declined going to the annual Thanksgiving Charity Gala. Sure, Jason has never wanted to be caught dead at one of those since his days as Robin, but never had he declined so formally. Without a sneer on his face or a snort that he’d be smacked for. Passing out blankets and soup kitchens turning into discussing plans for new anti-drug campaigns in school. Why the fuck not? Jason spent so much time running from them, then selling them, he may as well use some of his very specific insight on something that was meant for the greater good (even if it was for the Bludhaven youth). Jason knew it would be a shit chance of actually doing good, sure the money and effort wasted (if not stolen first), but somehow the way that Dick beamed at him was _worth it_.. kind of.

Jason – Red Hood was always vigilant of the brothels and rent by the hour hotels, but now he made more of a statement that he was watching them. Took the time out of his patrol to walk home some of the workers, punch in a few teeth of the scum that “owned” them. He picked up any slack that he let fall over the drug trade, might have blown a few sky high just for the hell of it (much to Bruce and the GCPD’s dismay). For the first time, Jason wasn’t feeling the overbearing need to hate himself or the world around him.

It still _wasn’t_ a magic fix. There was the occasional nightmare, the need to take half a tablet of the other (now a staple in his belt), the craving for a cigarette too powerful for him to resist. The _Newports_ were never anything more than something to keep his hands busy, to take off the edge and give him a few seconds of peace of mind. For a while now he’d actually started to lean on them less and less. A good thing sure. His fingers didn’t smell like minty smoke, sticks wasted less in less by being plucked out of his fingers by an (concerned) annoying family member. His wallet was gleeful with the savings. There were however other downfalls than not being a get out of jail free card..

Jason saw it in his face one morning while shaving. How the sharp of his cheekbones were.. fuller. He knew he gained a few healthy pounds when he started to eat regularly but now.. He had a baby face (he didn’t). There was no other way to describe it (there was). So much more to be paranoid about now. Don’t think he didn’t notice a few days later when he was going through is daily exercise of facing the long shallow scar at his torso he noticed the softness there. It wasn’t like he lost any significant amount of muscle definition, but tell him there was padding there at side before. Tell him that his thighs didn’t look a little more full.

Of course, being a miserable neurotic fucking mess, he was a fucking delight. _Chiseled like a Greek God_. Jason knew he was gorgeous, it was one of the few things that he was blessed with. Like the more damaged a person was, the more the fates took pity on him and gave to him in beauty. He knew even with the white streak (that he now let sit freely among the curly tresses, never bringing dye to it again) he was the main fucking course. But now he was _fat._

Jason Peter Todd, scrawny to bulking muscle, and now fat.

He almost fainted when Talia agreed that his cheeks looked fuller. A lesser man would have wept when Dr. Asalaah confirmed that his current cocktail did indeed have the dreaded side effect of weight gain. He at least chide both he and Talia in saying he wasn’t anywhere near fat when he explained (wailed) his new developments. Sat Jason right in his place in asking if _vanity_ was worth the progress he’d made in strides. Again, that old bastard had a point. He promised that it wasn’t anything to ‘get blubbered about’. With Jason’s lifestyle he was already combatting the worst of it, and unless there was a monumental drop in his fitness, he wouldn’t ever have to worry about going up in sizes (then to imply that some people were into that – he’s never seen Talia laugh that day).

He may have been cautious at Christmas dinner, not indulging on the mouth watering homemade treats on display, only one cup of hot chocolate, candy was out of the question. That paranoia seemed to be nothing but that; paranoia. No one said a word about his pudge. Not. A. Damn. Soul. Maybe they were too distracted that they each had a gift with his name attached (or several if he was being honest), let alone him being there, actively participating (he even helped decorate damnit).

There was some merit here; he could still be a man (a pudgy one) and have help. _Jason didn’t need to give up anything of himself that he didn’t want to_ , and he could see that now. He could _still_ smoke if he wanted (which he didn’t often), he could _still_ work on his bike with his music obscenely loud, he could _still_ (not so) secretly enjoy a good book, he could _still_ kneecap people and get on his family’s last damn nerve – and at the end of the day, _he was still Jason_. He was still Red Hood. He was just a little more stable, dare he say happy at times even, and he had a family. Not just crimson painted across his chest as a nod of affiliation, a band of ragtag outlaws, or a secret confidant. Familly. Jason loved those idiots, even if he still wanted to shoot himself in the face over the shit they pulled sometimes. But wasn’t that how family was supposed to make people feel?

To think, the last time he stood on this balcony, he was a boy making a wish to the stars, to the stream of Gotham Harbor caressing the stone cliff. Now here he was, a man at twenty-four, beer in hand, with the sound of said family at his back bristling with life over the final minute countdown.

“ _Little Wing!_ ”

Jason didn’t even try to feign an annoyed expression when he turned, didn’t try to hide the twitch of his lips when deep seeded jade met with brilliant crystalline. “ _Yeah Big Bird?_ ”

“ _Get that cute chubby face in here! We’re at the countdown!_ ” So maybe they had noticed, if normally striped fingers were so eagerly cupping his face and pinching at his cheeks. Jason couldn’t bring himself to care.

Not even when Tim was leaning himself into the doorframe, dorky little smirk in place as he spoke.“ _Yeah, come on Zombie boy, we’re all waiting for you to join the toast._ ”

Why would he care? What else could he fucking do other than to raise his bottle and count down with the happy chourus from five. 

**Author's Note:**

> When I first started writing this, I knew I wanted to end this one on a happy note. I also knew that I didn't want to write the typical Jason-centric batfamily fic. I wanted breathing room for Jason to be well, Jason first. Not only that, but I've always liked the idea of Jason finding serenity in Talia and her helping him with such love. He owes the woman training, let alone his life. I'd like to think that it wasn't entirely out her obsession with Bruce, that they really did care for each other. So when I saw the family tag, I thought it was a brilliant way to express that extended love that he's found. 
> 
> I really tried to capture his struggles as realistically and tasteful as possible given the heavier undertones. I'd like to state right now, that no one method is correct for everyone, and seeking help is not at all something only pussies do. Jason was never fat, and I nor he is fatshaming anyone. He's just an insecure little shit. 
> 
> And lastly, I started this at 9PM on the 16th, so this is only two hours late.


End file.
